


A Balm for Aching Hearts

by Zaatar



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, can't spell "silmarillion" without "hastily sworn oath!"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 07:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18795724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaatar/pseuds/Zaatar
Summary: In the Fen of Serech, Barahir teaches Finrod how to mourn.





	A Balm for Aching Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lingwiloke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lingwiloke/gifts).



> Thank you to Lingwiloke for the opportunity to run with such a beautiful prompt from such an emotional scene!

Weaned on tales of bright-lit halls, rich-dyed tapestry, and bright-eyed lords, Barahir had visited the King’s halls as a lad with his brother and sisters when he was still young enough to ride on his father’s shoulders. 

They’d been made welcome by folk he’d called angels from his mother’s tales, and had whispered as such to Bregil before she hushed him in the way of eldest sisters. “Nay, not angels, but princes from the West. They came to teach our forefathers.” And so Barahir stared, open-mouthed and open-eyed at these teachers who seemed lit from the inside, who wore silks that streamed like water down their backs and glittered with the stars of heaven at their brows and on their fingers.

The brightest of them, clad in gold and green and gleaming in silver, stood from his seat when his father approached and clasped his arm like a brother. Bregil and Hirwen blushed and curtsied when he looked at them (poor Gilwen was sick at home) and Bregolas bowed, but Barahir stood tall as his six years allowed, proud of his father who was friend to princes. “Bow to King Felagund,” Bregil hissed but Felagund laughed, like a harp in the night, and when he spoke, the rest of the hall was silent.

“Well met, son of Bregor,” said he and _Felagund_ bowed, embroidered robes sweeping around his feet. “The son of chiefs need not kneel, though a king may if he wishes.” He winked and turned back to his father and Hirwen turned a glare on him, saying _she_ needn’t have curtsied, only she hadn’t known, and Bregil shushed them both. Solemn Bregolas folded his arms over his chest, Bregolas who was born to be a chief and not merely the son of one and that night he told them all, “if a king chooses to bow, then whom does it honor if we do not?”

No one, Barahir realized and when they met Felagund again to say their farewells, he knelt and removed the leather thong from around his neck, with its small pouch, in which, folded into a small square, was tucked away a small parchment with protective lettering. “For you, my lord,” he said and watched, too nervous to look up, as fine leather boots stepped closer. “It will protect you during the dark of the moon. My mother’s sister made it herself.” 

A snicker sounded down the hall, and a cough from an adjoining room, and Barahir imagined himself a small hedgehog, quite protected if only he could curl up. But long fingers plucked the pouch from his hand and when he did look up, King Felagund was placing it around his neck. “An amulet scribed by Andreth Saelind is not, I think, to be taken lightly.” 

No more laughter then and pride burned again in Barahir’s chest, strong and fulfilled, though when he turned for one last look at king from the West , he was busy with this lords in his other matters, and did not see him leave.

His father brought Barahir to Nargothrond a few times after that, less often than his brother, who must know how to cultivate friendship between them and those shining lords, but more often than his sisters who more and more drew apart to learn from his mother and father. Each time, King Felagund bowed to him, and each time Barahir bowed back, remembering his brother’s words.

And when last he came, it was without Bregor, who had grown old and tired and finally accepted the gift of Ilúvatar, and it was with his brother, now grown tall and strong, chief of their people. King Felagund had clasped Bregolas’ arm as he had their father’s, and bowed to Barahir as he had when he was young, and offered his condolences with a tightness around his eyes.

Did the bright king mourn? Did the Elves know how?

For Felgaund had not grown old, had not grown tired, and had no gifts to accept, not graciously nor bitterly, yet still he had heard that his people had suffered great loss once, long before his own had followed the sun into these lands. 

He thought to ask, once, but next he had the opportunity to come, Emeldir was late term with child and Barahir feared to leave her behind and so Bregolas had gone with his own two sons and came back rich with story. 

“Uncle!” Belagund had cried, running to meet him and embracing him around his waist, skinny arms and tiny hands barely making it to clasp around him. “Uncle, the king asked after you!”

“Did he now,” Barahir asked, crouching down to Belagund’s height, though he did not believe it. Why should he ask after him, a son and brother of chiefs, but a son and brother alone? 

“Aye, he did,” said older Baragund, leading his pony over. “He asked, ‘and where is the son of Bregor whose amulet I hold dear?’ Father told us that was you.” 

“So it was.” And Barahir dreamt that night of gleaming halls and glittering faces, sweet wine and sweeter music, and a golden-haired king presiding.

* * *

The messengers found him on the road. Blood-spattered and wild-haired, they rode out to his company from the direction he was headed, from the north, north where Bregolas’ men had marched to join the Elf-king’s brothers in defense of Nargothrond’s realm. “What news,” he cried, heart beating, horse heaving, repeating the question again and again because when their eyes slid from his, he would not hear the answer. He refused to hear the answer. “What news, what news,” and wept it, sliding down off his horse, reaching for a brother who had already left him.

“He fell by the side of Lord Aegnor,” they told him, Aegnor whom his mother’s sister had loved, Aegnor who had visited their home when he was a babe, who had never returned and never would. Aegnor who had left Andreth because she would die and _he would not,_ Aegnor Fire-Eyed who had died in flame.

Aegnor, Barahir thought, who died by _Bregolas’_ side, and not only Bregolas by his. 

And yet was there no pride in claiming deaths in service to the Lords from the West? There was, perhaps. There was and Barahir would have bartered it, bartered all glory for unscorched earth and untouched families. 

“Then we will bury him,” he declared, mustering his company forth.

“My chief,” they argued, and he looked for Bregolas but their eyes were on him. “And you go to bury him, you would yourself be buried. There is naught left there to save. But our scouts have heard word of a party out of Nargothrond, small and cut off from its people. Do we meet them?”

No, Barahir wanted to say, _no, we bury my brother, we raise a mound and place a cairn so all who pass will sing of the bravery of Bregolas the Bold._ But who would be left to sing if they honored the dead above the living?

“We meet them.” And he rent his clothes and rode out. The days of mourning would be uninterrupted, but they would wait. 

By day’s end, the mourning would multiply. They came across the elven company, small indeed, their shine muted by old blood, rust, soot, and sorrow. Weakened they were, injured and reeling, though they cried out in relief at their arrival. Their king was among them, the wise king, the kind king, pale under the blood and favoring his left leg. Barahir’s company were rescuers and heroes and heroes die fast; even so they charged forth with their spears, a wall between the Enemy and the Elves. 

If Bregolas gave his life for Lord Aegnor, would not Barahir give his for the kind king? 

He did not need to. Whatever losses they suffered, and they were many, his own, it seemed, had not yet been decreed. For a minute at least he was a warrior out of tales, a saver of lives, not a thief of them. The Orcs cowered in dismay from their spears and their arrows, and though they fought viciously, it was as cowards, shoving each other at them like weapons, their cruelly barbed armor cutting like swords. But they were tired, and Barahir’s men were fresh, well-rested and called to vengeance, for Bregolas the Brave and his warriors.

And when, finally, the Enemy had been routed, though not without great cost, he dismounted to meet the king, at whose side he had just now fought.

Twenty years it had been. Barahir’s son was older than he himself had been when first they’d met. He’d been a barefaced child and now his beard with laced with gray. He’d been rich in family and now they’d been cut down. He’d been a son and brother. Now he was a chief.

And as for King Felagund who had still not grown old, he had now grown tired. And Barahir remembered he had news to bear, for his own messengers had been cut down. 

“My Lord Felagund,” he said, and then he knelt and stared down, as afraid to meet his bright eyes as he had been when he was six. The boots he saw were caked in ash-mood and innards, but then padded knee met them and Barahir looked up to see Felgaund kneeling in front of him.

“Son of Bregor,” Felagund said, his eyes bright now with more than just far-away light and when they met his, Barahir knew he message he carried had already been received. “Are we both to mourn our brothers then?” 

Grown tired, yes, but younger too, Barahir now saw. Younger than he’d been at his throne and in his halls, younger than he’d been when his brothers had guarded his borders. Younger in grief, but heavier too, tarnished as even fine silver does. 

Weeping.

So Elves knew how to grieve, at least, if not to mourn. 

Felagund reached out to trace the tear Barahir had rent into his tunic and then up to unbraid his own hair. 

“I knew it when it happened,” he said, open-faced like a child. “Like the loss of milk-teeth. But they will not grow back. And Aikanáro, he swore he would not return-” 

Felagund broke off, then, and closed his eyes, and sang a woman’s dirge, a familiar one, one his own mother had sang, her sisters, his wife, long and low in Old Taliska, perhaps Andreth had taught him, perhaps his own mother’s mother or her mother or hers and it seemed impossible to him that the Elves had no laments of their own. 

But soon enough the words changed, morphing into a High Tongue, a strange one, loose and rounded and straight from the West. And as Felagund squeezed his eyes shut, Barahir’s opened wider: he saw about them two children, impossibly beautiful, yellow haired and bright eyed playing on gem-strewn sands. He began to recognize one - Lord Aegnor, still a princeling, and another with similar features, though less familiar. Lord Angrod it must have been, a little older but younger still than his own son. 

And the two of them opened their mouths, as if to join in the song, but Felagund’s choked off and they dissipated like wind-blown clouds as he wept.

A new face looked over at them and rushed over to them. He was tall with dark hair, like most of Felagund’s people, a strong nose and grey eyes, and he helped the king to his feet. Barahir rose with him, no more noticed than a leaf, as the Elf removed the king’s armor, his helm, his sword. “We must leave, my lord,” he said, clear-voiced and deep. “We have too many wounded to linger.” 

Felagund nodded and Barahir had never seen someone to look at one so aged and so young and he opened his mouth but the other Elf kept speaking, of maps and strategy, of fire and retreat, and oh, what a terrible thought, but did none of them know truly how to comfort a mourner? 

He’d heard tales, they all had, of the march across the ice, of the first battles and long sieges, but in none of those tales had anyone _stopped._ Had stopped and keened and rent their garments and sat unwashed in grief and memory. Did any of them know how?

Barahir tried to say anything, but now there was someone else at the king’s elbow, asking after food and provision, shelter and spies - and another, speaking of allies and lieges, of uncles and nephews and cousins, but nowhere did Barahir hear the word _brother,_ nowhere but from the lips of Felagund himself.

But perhaps they didn’t know at all, Barahir wondered. His father had told him once that the king _knew_ things sometimes, knew things without learning them, and with his small company cut off, how could he have received message? “My lord,” he said, and when none listened, he repeated himself, in a voice he’d learned from his father. “My _lord._ ” 

Felagund looked back at him and held up a hand to another who sought to interrupt them. 

“I would take council with Barahir son of Bregor,” he said, hoarse and quiet and it was a wonder to Barahir that no one else could see such obvious cracks in the clay of his face. “Leave us.”

And they did.

And Barahir stepped forward. And Felagund stepped forward. And he looked, from one side to the other, as if all the rest here were circling buzzards, carrions waiting to feed on his grief if he left it unguarded for even a moment. And he said, “what do I _do?”_

“My lord,” Barahir said and held both of his hands out to the side, splayed-fingered and bloody-palmed. “You cry.”

For Felagund was already. 

And Felagund saw it for the offering it was and embraced him, not a king at all but a brother bereaved, like Barahir himself and like so many of his men, and Barahir heeded his own words and wept as well until they shuddered and sobbed into each other’s shoulders, kneeling back down to steadier ground. 

“And when you get home,” Barahir continued, and thought of those golden halls, the glittering mosaics, and silken tapestries and failed to imagine it as a house of mourning, “you sit and you lament and you turn your brothers into song, and every one who comes for an audience will write verses of their own.” 

Felagund nodded against his neck and Barahir thought of his own home, the rough-hewn wood and the intricate gilt knots painted over it. Of the crowds gathering in the home of his brother’s wife, of Baragund and Belegund sitting on the ground as visitors brought them food, offered condolences. Of him sitting with them, his spear and shield propped up outside. He couldn’t picture any of the Lords from the West partaking of their bread and lentils. 

“They will be renowned in song,” Felagund said softly. “Iron-handed Angrod and fire-bearing Aegnor.” He pulled back and spoke as if reciting words memorized long ago. “The pines of Dorthonion will ever-burn and wretched will be those who call it home.” His eyes snapped back to Barahir whose chest had gone tight.

After all, it was his people who had lived there.

“I will not see Aegnor again.”

Their people, Barahir remembered, might return to the West, new in body and aged in spirit if they so chose. His own people - they did not return.

“Nor will I Bregolas.” 

“Ah.” Felagund nearly smiled, a wistful, rueful thing. “The gift of Ilúvatar cuts like a blade, though I must still call it gift.”

“We do not always.”

“We call _that_ a marring.” But Felagund held up his hand before he could he respond. “I teach no lessons, son of Bregor. For if his gift is his plan, then so are my brothers’ deaths, and that I cannot currently bear.” 

“There are no lessons in grief,” said Barahir. “Only the thing itself.” 

“The lack of the thing. Where they should be.” Felagund moved his hand to his chest, covering his heart. “They beat here since their begetting. _Where did they go?”_

“To the Halls surely, my lord.”

Felagund shut his eyes against something that Barahir could not see. “I will follow them.” 

Barahir wanted to argue, King Felagund on his throne could not die. But he had heard of the Doom that followed his people, and never had he seen it so clearly on someone’s face. “Not yet, my lord.”

“No,” Felagund agreed. “Not yet.”

He stood up and Barahir followed suit and it occurred to him that their lack of interruption was a wonder of its own. Their two companies moved about them, busying themselves with triage and travel. 

“You have given us great aid,” said Felagund and he seemed to grow taller then, not so young as he had recently looked, yet nor so old. Ageless in the way of his people, proud and gleaming as if his mail had not been stripped away. “And to me great friendship. When they sing of my brothers, they will sing of you too, Barahir son of Bregor, aye and your wife the Manhearted, for even now she musters the strength of your women.” 

Dire news, thought Barahir, that Emeldir would need it, but he dared not interrupt.

“I swear to you an oath,” Felagund said and stopped and Barahir could swear himself that he saw fear cross his face, a brief terror before a fierce anger, aimed not at him but beyond him, beyond their companies, beyond the trees, beyond even the Enemy himself. “An oath,” he repeated, “of abiding friendship and aid in every need.”

Now even taller was he, not just armored but armed, a darkness falling over his shoulders like a too-heavy cloak, and under it he staggered, yet remained unmoving. He held up his hand and removed his ring, the silver of it glittered past the darkness, and held it out and when Barahir took it, he let his hand fall. And there - he was shrunken: a grieving king, divested of sword and mail, whose gentle voice was soft and sad.

“To you and all your kin.”

Barahir studied the ring, worth more, he knew, than all the worth of all his own adornment combined. Twin serpents with emerald eyes and a crown of golden flowers, one swallowing it down, the other raising it up.

A queer thing. A glorious thing.

Felagund reached out and clasped Barahir’s forearm; Barahir hesitated before returning the grip, but he was no lord of all his people, the people of Bëor, that distant forefather whom Felagund had known.

“The badge of my father’s house,” Felagund said before leaning in and pressing his forehead to Barahir’s. “But it will be known by your name.”

“I am honored,” said Barahir quietly. “But do not forget to mourn.” Left alone, he was not sure he would.

“For days,” Felagund promised. “I will sit and lament. For Angrod, for Aegnor, for Bregolas the Bold.”

And Barahir smiled. “And I as well.” 


End file.
